Return from Deutschland

God, it feels great to be back home after my travels to Munich, Germany -- to be back here in the good ole’ United States of America and away from all those monk-brewed liters of mouthwatering beer, heaping platefuls of fresh sausage and sauerkraut, and gaggles of blonde-haired, 16 year-old Bavarian wenches drunk off their asses and looking to screw.


Yes, life is surely better away from all that nonsense. I’m a busy man, after all, and if I had to deal with even one more gorgeous, blue-eyed Aryan prostitute soliciting me for sex at a paltry 40 bucks a pop, or another gigantic tender chicken roasted to perfection and served on a plate of creamed potato deliciousness, I might’ve snapped. I’m an American, dang-it, and I need my hookers overpriced, my food over-processed, and my beer light enough to mix tolerably with Kool-Aid.


Yeah, Atlanta, Georgia, rules. Yeah. Munich during Oktoberfest sucks. Yeah.


I mean, really, who wants to drink Jagermeister fresh from the source when you could be suffering a watered-down, FDA-limited imitation? And who wants to dance on a table with a thousand drunk, reveling Germans in lederhosen when you could be sitting in the same shithole bars you’ve sat in for 23 years, listening to the same idiot Atlantan ass-brigadiers shoot their cocaine-stained gums off about their band hitting it big, or who’s fucking whom, or if anyone present actually has enough money to cover the whopping $30 tab they racked up sitting in said bar for 7 hours.


wait for it...


By now even a deviated septum could smell the sarcasm dripping off my words. It’s true, my heart has been ensnared by the blue and white checkered glory of Munich, Germany.


Anne Frankly, I’m sick of America, and the return flight is what really hammered it home for me. The captain was telling us about the wondrous cities, interesting landmarks, and all the centuries of culture and history we’d be flying over on our way to – ehem – Atlanta.


Atlanta: a town that gets burned to the ground every hundred years or so; a town whose claim to cultural fame was hosting the 1996 Coca-Colympics; a town whose greatest benefactor is a hillbilly cable TV pioneer who loves huntin’ and humpin’ anything that walks on two legs, can be mounted on a wall, or both.


If you mention Atlanta to anyone outside Atlanta, they’ll say 1) “Oh, I’ve been in your airport!” and I’ll say, “Great,” and then we’ll stare awkwardly at each other, or 2) they’ll say, “How was the Olympics!” and I’ll say “Great, seven years ago,” and then we’ll stare awkwardly at each other. Finally, we have classic number 3) “So, have you ever heard of Pepsi? Hah!” at which point I am obliged to seek out the largest, bluntest instrument of force I can find, brain them with it, and then brain myself as well, for being the jack-off still living in this godforsaken town.


Seriously, Atlanta is due for another razing. You kids grab the salt, I’ll summon the spirit of William Tecumseh Sherman, and we’ll lay down an old-fashioned Scorched Earth Policy on this sorry excuse for a metropolis.


I suppose this trip to Munich has pretty much sealed the deal for me: I’ve got to get high-holy-hell out of here, and toot quick. Who’s with me? Who can recommend a nice place with low business taxes, high alcohol content, and no age-of-consent? My only other request is that the people there not have slanted-eyes.


Bueller?